


a candle at my chest, a hand on his knee

by gingersprite



Series: stronger for having been broken [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Horror, Dissociation, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Fix-It, Past Abuse, Past Torture, but it's mostly mild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-18 01:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20630648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingersprite/pseuds/gingersprite
Summary: They are both cursed and blessed with dreams.





	a candle at my chest, a hand on his knee

**Author's Note:**

> Theonsa week day four, prompt: dreams
> 
> Trying out some new stuff for this one, folks, so it's a bit different from my usual style. Guess we'll find out if that's a good thing or not?

Theon had expected that he’d cry when they reached Winterfell; instead he just felt numb. Their first few days of travel, he’d screamed and kicked up a storm, mostly at Lord Stark but he wasn’t picky. He cursed the greenlanders, spat every dirty word he knew; but the trip was so long, and he was so small, eventually he ran out of strength to fight them.

When he first met Robb, the other boy’s face had lit up like this was one of the best days of his young life; he didn’t properly understand that Ned hadn’t brought him back a new brother, one like Jon. Theon had shunned his attempts at friendship, at least for the first few days; Robb was nothing if not persistent, and eventually Theon’s loneliness got the better of him and he let the other boy in.

As part of showing him around the castle, Robb took him into a tombs; the very idea of burying the dead in the earth rather than the sea piqued Theon’s curiosity enough that he pushed past the fear of being underground. At first they just wandered, but then Robb led him to a specific statue, of a scrawny, sickly man. The stone sword across his lap and the direwolf at his feet marked him as one of the old Kings of Winter.

“‘Theon Stark’. They called him ‘the Hungry Wolf’.” Robb told him in a hushed voice.

“Why’d they call him such a stupid name?” Theon asked, trying to sound as flippant as possible; but there was something about the stone face that called to him in a way he wasn’t quite comfortable with.

“Because he was always fighting wars, first with the Andals, then the wildlings and the Ironborn,” Robb explained. “So the North was strong, but a lot of people went hungry, even the king.”

Looking at the statue that shared him name, eyes sunken into his gaunt face, Theon decided then that Robb was wrong. Theon Stark had been hungry, yes, but not for food; maybe it was for power, or wealth, or land. 

Or maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe that Theon, like him, hungered for something more, something he dared not give name.

\---

For as long as Sansa could remember, all she ever wanted was to be as good and kind as possible. She wanted to be like the women from her favorite stories: Jonquil and Elenei, Black Betha and Jenny of Oldstones. If she was fair and proper and sweet, she would find love and happiness just as they did.

Once, she’d been certain that Joffrey was the key to that perfect life she dreamed of. Her perfect, golden prince.

She’d been a fool. A pretty little bird with a head full of nonsense, repeating words she’d been trained to say. Just like the queen always said she was.

Sansa knew she hadn’t always been a little bird; there was a time when she was a wolf, like her father and brothers and sister. She used to have dreams where she walked in the skin of a wolf, the snow crunching under her paws, her thick fur keeping out the Northern cold. 

The dreams stopped when Lady died. Now her dreams were filled with the swirl of white cloaks as the Kingsguard beat her, set to the sound her father’s head made when it hit the ground.

The high _swish_ of a sharp blade slicing through air. The wet _thunk_ of it meeting flesh. The dull _thud_ of a skull on stone.

And repeat.

\---

Eventually Theon had learned to enjoy Winterfell, with its vast forests and maze of catacombs to explore. His heart still longed for Pyke, for Yara and Mother and the sea, but over time his dreams became less about going home and more about belonging. About being a wolf of Winterfell, not a beached kraken. He envied and hated Jon in equal measures; Jon, who moped about not really being a Stark, when it was he who Ned called ‘son’.

They played at being knights of old, fighting monsters and rescuing maidens; Sansa had loved those stories best, and even as a little thing she was bossy as all hells. She always insisted on being a princess in distress, in need of a prince to save her. Robb was always her first choice of princes, and if Jon couldn’t be the hero he insisted on being the hero’s partner; sometimes Theon fought him for that honor, but mostly it was just easier to be the villain. 

For the most part Theon didn’t mind, as playing the cackling villain was always much more fun than being the bland, boring hero. But still, something seethed inside him every time Sansa cheered and called Robb ‘my prince’. Theon had been a prince, once. If he still was, maybe she would have liked him better; maybe she would have begged her father to let them marry. 

Then they could both have what they wanted: she would be a princess, and he would be Ned Stark’s son.

But those dreams had belonged to a boy, and he was no boy; Reek had never even been a man.

\---

At some point, she stopped seeing her father’s death, and began to imagine Joffrey’s. She dreamed of rescue, of Robb breaking through the door of the Red Keep and saving her. His armies would crash through the city gates like waves, a storm sent by the very gods themselves. He’d have Theon at his side; smirking, smiling Theon, shooting arrows as sharp as his tongue.

Maybe Jon would be with them, giving up his vows to save his sisters and avenge their father. Sansa knew that Arya was his favorite, that Arya was _everyone’s_ favorite; but surely Jon liked her well enough to save her too. 

But whoever came, Robb would definitely be leading them. Robb would lay Joffrey’s head at her feet, more red than golden now, a gruesome offering. Then he would slay Cersei with her cruel sneer, and the Hound with his leering looks. 

Sansa’s dreams were still full of blood and carnage, but now they weren’t nightmares. It frightened her, to see this bloodthirsty streak awoken in her. It was this awful city, twisting her into someone she didn’t recognize.

Or even worse, maybe it had always been there. As she watched Joffrey gasp and froth, blood streaming from his nose, underneath the horror was something else.

_Glee._

\---

If Reek had dreams, he didn’t remember them. He could barely tell when he was asleep from when he was awake. It was better this way.

\---

Alayne didn’t dream about dead parents and brothers and lost sisters. She didn’t know what she dreamed about, the vestiges always fleeting upon waking. Whatever she dreamed, she hoped it was the sweet, pretty dreams of an empty-headed little bird. Not whatever it was that she was becoming.

\---

It was only once he started having dreams that he knew he was becoming Theon again. Simple dreams, of safety and warmth, soft blankets and good food.

Blue eyes, and hair like fire.

\---

All she had ever dreamed of was having a handsome knight pledge to die for her. Now she had one, and all she wanted was for him to stay.

Theon lay in his sickbed, his fate uncertain. Though he’d become more lucid as he gained strength, he was still at risk for infection and fever. Sansa was at his side whenever able, brief snatches of time in between plans and councils and meetings where she could find some solace. Where they both could.

\---

“Sometimes, I wonder if you’re even real,” he whispered. “Maybe you’re just another dream.”

\---

The first time they shared a bed, she warned him of the nightmares.

“I see things… awful things. And often I don’t know I’m dreaming.”

He could relate.

“I still don’t always know when I’m awake.”

“I’ll tell you,” she promised. “So long as you tell me. I think I’d be alright if this was a dream, so long as you were there.”

“None of my dreams are half as good at this.” Theon admitted, and Sansa pressed her mouth to his. He could taste her smile.

“Then I suppose this is as good a place to start as any.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Night Terror" by Laura Marling.


End file.
